Thick As Thieves
by Jael K
Summary: Leonard Snart is not the biggest fan of Rip Hunter. Rip Hunter is not the biggest fan of Leonard Snart. But whether they admit it or not, the crook and the captain have an awful lot in common ... and when they have to team up for a mission, they just might figure that out. (Four chapters.)
1. Chapter 1

Many thanks to LarielRomeniel for beta reading this!

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''If truth is not to be found on the shelves of the British Museum, where ... is truth?"

Virgina Woolf

* * *

Leonard Snart may be sleeping better than he ever has in his life to date, but he's still getting used to waking up next to another person.

Case in point, this morning (or whatever the equivalent is on a ship with an artificially established "day" and "night," anyway), when he struggles up from slumber with a face full of wild blonde hair (some of which appears to have gotten into his mouth) and a numb left arm from the someone who is curled up on it.

A few weeks into this new … whatever it is … he still fights a millisecond of panic as he registers the presence of the warm body in his arms, the fact that someone is **this close** while he's vulnerable and half-awake and mostly naked and …

Oh.

Sense prevails over flight-or-fight with the memory of how he … they … got that way, and he relaxes. It's a point of pride that Sara has apparently slept through that brief moment of tension; when she first started staying in here, it would have had her surging up from sleep herself, with all the reflexes honed by two stints in the League of Assassins, ready to fight whomever or whatever had caused that reaction in him.

It made for some interesting mornings.

But now … well, it hasn't come without struggles, but, oh, he's liking the advantages of more or less sharing a room. He shifts just a tiny bit so that instead of having a mouthful of hair, he is nuzzling her neck, then starts to kiss his way to the hinge of her jaw.

The low chuckle that greets his actions after a moment or two has become one of his favorite sounds in the world.

"Mm-Hmm..." She stretches against him, tilting her head back just a little. "You can keep doing that."

He obliges, but manages to murmur at the same time, "Just that?"

"Well … work your way up to other things …" He can see the corner of her smile; he leans over just a little further to put his lips on hers...

And they both start as Rip Hunter's voice emits from the ship's comms.

"Ladies and gentleman, we have a … situation … that needs to be looked into while the temporal data remains stable. Please assemble on the bridge as soon as possible." A pause. "Ms. Lance and Mr. Snart, this does include you."

Sara laughs. Leonard groans.

"Down, boy. Duty calls." She does flip over to kiss him, hard, but then moves away and sheds the blankets, sitting up and pulling her unruly hair back from her face. It's a good view, he acknowledges, but he preferred the one he had a few moments ago. "The captain wouldn't be rousting everyone this 'early' if something wasn't going on."

"The captain," he says, as he watches her rise and pad across … their? … room toward the clothing strewn across a chair, "is an …"

* * *

"… ass," Rip Hunter mutters to himself as he watches the team crook saunter off into the corridors of the Waverider without even a backward glance or an offer of help.

Not that his help was needed, at any rate. It's the principle of the matter.

On some level, the former Time Master is pleased the once-lost member of the team he'd so laboriously gathered is back among them. Snart's apparent death … after he, himself, had fled with the others … had been a pull on his conscience, especially when he saw the look in Sara's eyes, the blankness on Mr. Rory's face. Someone else had sacrificed himself for this, this … constant tilting at windmills of his … and that's knowledge and a memory he'd add to the rest of his ghosts.

The crook's return had been a miracle.

But apparent death and just as apparent resurrection has not changed the man for the better. Still the same casual contempt for his teammates. Same constant insouciance. Same … disrespect for pretty much everything, really. No matter that Savage is still at large, that the timeline has been shot all to bloody hell, that none of them can check on their families ( _oh, Miranda_ , _Jonas..._ ) until this fluctuating time stream is resolved, for fear of setting in stone events they can know nothing about due to the _goddamned bloody timeline_.

Oh, and Sara Lance, the closest thing he has to a true lieutenant, has apparently moved into Snart's room and his bed and they're rather shameless about it, really. God knows the self-satisfied smirk hasn't left Snart's face once since they first emerged, and Sara isn't much better.

He rips his memory anyway from similar shenanigans with Miranda – Rip Hunter, Time Master, has never in his life _smirked,_ not even when getting caught, err, on the holo table with his wife – and, scrubbing his hand across his face, sighs.

The team (minus Snart, because Gideon still thinks it best he refrain from missions that might include combat, although he's getting increasingly antsy about that) is now off in the 1920s, collecting intel on whether Savage has gone to ground there. Rip rather thinks not, but there's still information to be gained, as Savage is known to have local allies.

"Gideon," he says finally, "has anything new stabilized from the time stream?"

The AI's lengthy pause is not unusual. Since the Oculus Wellspring blew, the timeline information is sporadic, trickling back into Gideon's databanks in the tiniest of rivulets … a historic fact here, a confirmed family tree there. Gideon doesn't bother reporting on most of this minutia, and to be honest, given that she just recently provided him with the intel that led them all to 1920s New York City, he's not expecting anything else notable anytime soon.

Instead, his heart plummets … for when Gideon speaks again, the AI's tone is actually troubled.

"Captain," she says, "there's a temporal … oddity … registering in London. In the latter half of 1882."

Rip slowly lowers his hand from his face.

"Gideon," he says slowly, "what did you … never mind. Do you have any idea … any more specific information what it is?"

"I do not, Captain. It …" She pauses. "Actually, yes, it seems to be centered on the British Museum."

That's … good. But still far too close for comfort.

"An artifact, do you think? A book?" _Tell me it's not a person …_

"Not a person." At least Gideon sounds definite on that. "Given that it appears to be in the Reading Room, it does seem to be a book or manuscript. I will try to confirm that given the other variables."

That's good and bad. Good, because it's not a person to be confronted, given that he no longer has the resources and authority of the Time Masters behind him. Bad, because a book contains, after all, knowledge … perhaps the sort of knowledge that would be a very, very bad thing for the timeline. Lenin, after all, is one of the people who gains a reader's ticket at the BM's Reading Room, although that will be a number of years later.

There's no way, at this time, of knowing how this book got there, the time period it's originally from, or whether it could truly prove dangerous. In a world that still had other Time Masters, it would probably never even cross his radar. In fact, he thinks, given … certain personal facts … this case definitely wouldn't have been given to him, even before his fall. Someone else would have made a run, extracted the book in a Time-Master-approved style that would not damage the existing timeline, taken it back to its proper time or to the Vanishing Point, and that would have been that.

There's no one to do that, now. No one else.

When the others return, he thinks, a side trip will be in order.

"Captain..."

"What now?"

"I believe this volume to be a Time Master ledger. Apparently left behind somehow during our … recent events … when the Master in question departed abruptly for the Vanishing Point."

It would be an offense worthy of expulsion or worse … if there were still Time Masters, and if said Master wasn't likely dead, thanks to...

"I'll be taking the jump ship, Gideon. I just need to make a stop in the fabrication room, and have a word with Mr. Snart."

* * *

Leonard Snart is not a fan of visible symbols of weakness, but the occasional wobble that still remains in his step has driven him to procure exactly that. (Gideon continues to assure him that he will, eventually, be back to 100 percent. He declines to call her a liar even as he wonders.)

He's studying the cane he's acquired through the fabrication room (dark, polished mahogany, a bit of a twist at the top—just as he remembers it—exactly the right length) when Hunter storms in, halts to stare at him for a second, then shakes his head.

"Mr. Snart. How convenient. I have to take the jump ship on a bit of a … side trip. Gideon will have the information, but kindly hold down the fort, as it were, during my absence." He looks pained. "This should go without saying, but please don't leave without the others."

Hunter doesn't specify if he means with or without the ship (Snart has, admittedly, sweet-talked Gideon before), but either way, the lack of trust burns.

And as if there's any way in _hell_ he'd abandon Sara, or Mick, or even the rest of the team.

"By yourself?" he drawls to hide the anger. "Didn't you pretty much read us the riot act about doing that? To always be sure there's another person with you, just in case?"

"Well. _I_ am a Time Master …"

"Former. And they're sort of gone now anyway..."

Hmm. There's actually a flash of anger in the other man's eyes. Interesting. He presses it, partly curious to see how Hunter will react, and partly just because he can. "What is it you're planning to do, anyway, that you don't want company?"

The younger man's eyes are narrowed, his tone, terse. "Mr. Snart, there is a ledger that once belonged to a Time Master … one of those who undoubtedly fell prey to the cataclysm you yourself created … in the British Museum during the time of Queen Victoria. Can you imagine what it would do to the timeline if someone puzzled out the meaning of its contents? We … the Time Masters … kept cyphers, but there are always those who thrive on unraveling such things … and always those who neglect to keep them anyway."

Snart can imagine, actually. He can even concede this is something Hunter needs to do. But...

"You're pulling a heist and you didn't ask _me_?" He can't decide if he means his tone to be mock-offended or truly offended.

"It will be easier, simpler, if I just go in there myself and …"

"They're just going to let you walk out of there with this thing?"

"Well, not likely, but …"

"Then why do you think you don't need the thief _you_ recruited for your little team to go along on this jaunt? What are you trying to pull, _captain_?"

He's not sure why this suddenly means so much to him.

But it does.

* * *

Inwardly, Hunter is seething. Damn the man. Can't he see reason here?

"I've stolen a thing or two in my lifetime, you know," he grits out.

Snart looks unimpressed.

"Right," he drawls. "You were a 'cutpurse.' Ever planned a heist? This is what you brought me along for, right? Not my sparkling personality or my ability to fight or to … blow up … authority figures."

The tone on the last handful of words borders on the insolent, and Hunter nearly bristles with a scathing comeback.

But there's something else in Snart's tone, too, and that gives him the tiniest pause.

Something that's actually a touch … desperate...

"You have to promise to follow orders," he says before he even realizes he's going to. "I mean, really do it. This is going to be tricky. And I know this time, this place. You don't."

Snart blinks as he registers the captain's about-face. He nods once, curtly.

"Gideon? Will you clear Mr. Snart for a non-combat mission?"

The AI's pause draws out perhaps a few moments longer than he would like, but she accedes.

"All right, then. I'll make sure the ship is locked down but will decloak for Ms. Lance and the others. Sara or Mr. Rory can always fly out of here if need be. With any luck, we might even be back before they are." He turns to the fabricator, raises his voice to indicate the change of address again. "Gideon, I'm going to need two sets of Victorian noblemen's garb, appropriate to 1882 and researchers visiting the Reading Room at the British Museum. One to my measurements, one to Mr. Snart's. Oh, and one translator pill for the appropriate accent."

"What about you?" The older man's tone is neutral, with no edge to the words. That's probably the closest he'll ever get to a "thank you."

Well. Snart's not the only one with a past he doesn't always care to talk about. Hunter pulls Victorian London around him like a shroud, lets it color his voice … and seep back into his memories.

"I don't need it … _guv'nor_."


	2. Chapter 2

Before they leave, Gideon has pinpointed the time of the ledger's appearance in the Reading Room to Sept. 1, 1882. If Hunter's eyes and mouth narrow further at this news, he still doesn't comment on it.

But Snart, watching, makes note of it.

He's never been pleased about how little they know of the Waverider's captain. Thanks to Gideon and the technology of the Time Masters, the man knows everything…or at least, a whole lot… about them. But he's a mystery himself.

They've heard a few stories of his lost wife and son (to which Snart is not unsympathetic), and the little gleaned from the trip to the Refuge. (Little Rip was a little badass; Snart will also give him that.) But this…oh, this could be _interesting_...

"East London and _the future_ , eh?" he drawls, sprawled (insomuch as the Victorian gentleman's suit, complete with overcoat, will let him) in the shotgun seat of the jump ship as they take off.

Hunter doesn't bother to look at him. He doesn't bother to refute the basic premise, either. "Well," he says in a clipped tone, eyes fastened on the screen as they dart through the temporal zone, "at the time, that was true. I had been living in 2166."

"So, are there going to be two _yous_ in this time we're going to?"

That, he does not dignify with a response. Snart looks thoughtful, but treats it like the confirmation it effectively is.

"Family?" he inquires, sounding genuinely curious.

"No."

And then the ship is out of the temporal zone, flying in a wide arc over land that looks far too green and lush for an urban area - although, ahead in the distance, an already visible pall of smoke hangs over the land. Hunter immediate cloaks the ship, then dips down to fly low over the treetops.

"We'll be able to get far closer than we would in 2017, but we'll still have a walk ahead of us," he tells the other man. "You're up for that?"

Snart rolls his eyes, tips his top hat to the side, and brandishes his cane. Enough said.

* * *

It _is_ a walk. And while Snart shows absolutely no sign of his recent…infirmity…for the vast majority of it, eventually his steps lag, just a bit, and he can be seen to occasionally lean on that odd cane he'd had made in the fabrication room.

The look in his eyes dares Rip to comment. The Time Master does not, but he knows for a fact that he doesn't look pleased. He's long since lost the knack of completely concealing his feelings, the knack he'd learned from experience not so far from where they're walking at this very moment. (Not that his younger self is there now. He hadn't lived at the Foundling Hospital for about five years, at this point.)

This would have been so much simpler if Snart had just _listened_ for once...

"So, this is Bloomsbury?"

Rip blinks and glances at other man, who is eyeing him with an expression that makes him think his thoughts had been plastered all over his face. "Pardon? I mean, yes. How did you know that?"

Snart sighs, a touch theatrically. "Research. You think I didn't go read everything I could find about the museum, and the neighborhood, and the time period, as soon as you told me where and when we were going? Rip, Rip, _Rip_ , that's no way to pull off a successful heist." Smirk.

The Time Master can't completely hold back sarcasm of his own. Snart has that effect. "What, you mean you've never robbed the British Museum before?"

"Nope." But the comeback earns Rip a thin smile. "Why did you think I wanted to come along?"

"To be a pain in the ass, actually," he mutters, and is actually surprised to hear a bark of laughter.

"Nooo, that's a fringe benefit. Seriously, though, the area's quite interesting. The museum, of course; the Bloomsbury Group – Virginia Woolf, you know – all the gardens, the university. The Foundling Hospital..." Is that a pause? Surely not. "…and the businesses. Did you know that T.S. Eliot worked as an editor here? Although that wasn't for about another 40 years."

"You're quite well-read, Mr. Snart."

"Always the air of surprise. I happen to like books. So, do you have readers' tickets for us? Or are we supposed to just sweet-talk our way in there?" The smirk says he'd be happy to try, given the chance.

"I do, actually. The Time Masters maintained a variety of identities for use at the museum and Reading Room, as well as at other institutions around the world. They're still valid. Gideon just updated the dates for us."

"Hmmm..." Snart looks intrigued. Belatedly, Rip wonders if giving the crook that bit of information had truly been a good idea…but then they're there, right at the steps of the storied British Museum, and both of them go quiet.

It won't look much different in 2016, or even for quite a long time after that, actually. Rip, who has also seen it in smoking ruins, all its treasures looted and lost, regards it for a moment, then sighs and turns to his compatriot, dipping a hand into his overcoat pocket for the readers' tickets.

"I am …" he considers the ticket in his hand, "Mr. Luke Beaumont. And you, Mr. Snart, are one Mr. Bartholomew Grey."

"Ex _cuse_ me? Why do I get..." But he has to stifle the indignation and catch up, as Rip (a tiny smile on his face) heads for the entrance, doffing his hat as he approaches the doors.

The tickets elicit no comment as they enter. They're both admitted through the doors, strolling into the entryway and past all its sculptures, through the Room of Inscriptions and to a corridor where they're required to present the tickets for scrutinization. (Snart retains his cane, pleading a "war wound," although they both have to leave their overcoats.) And then, they are allowed to walk into that bastion of knowledge, the Reading Room of the British Museum.

It never ceases to amaze him, although he knows that, by the close of the 20th century, it will no longer exist quite in this form – and not long after that, will cease to house books at all. The great dome, inspired by the Pantheon in Rome; the long, lettered tables for readers, with the numbered seats and ink and pens and blotting-pads; the iron bookstacks, made to protect their precious contents; the thousands upon thousands of books themselves, arranged in tiers about the room.

Glancing at his companion, he sees a curiously arrested expression on Snart's face, the man's eyes going _flickflickflick_ from one thing to another. Even several hours ago, he would have assumed the career criminal is merely casing the place for this job or another one, but recalling Snart's earlier words, he wonders.

The crook does allow Rip to lead the way to one of the smaller, two-person tables and deposit his hat there; he follows suit without comment. Then he merely lifts an eyebrow in question.

Rip sighs.

"This," he says, sotto voce, to the other man, "is where we pray that it's on the bottom tier and we don't have to go through the process of writing for it." He nods to the desks in the center of the room, where attendants, under the watchful eyes of the Reading Room clerk and superintendent, accept requests for books that are shelved in the second and third tiers of stacks.

Snart merely rolls his eyes and turns away to inspect the room further. Rip frowns and taps his comm.

"Gideon, we're here. Guide me."

Fortunately it's a busy day in the Reading Room, and there's a certain amount of bustle. His muttering goes unnoticed … or unremarked, in any case. It helps that, by accident or design, Snart moves to shield him from the room at large, casually studying his surroundings, the bookshelves, or individual books, blocking the other man from view.

In a strange, lengthy sort of game of "hot and cold," Gideon manages to guide them to the ledger, which proves to be a handsome volume bound in blue leather, resting amidst volumes dealing with ancient history – the Phoenicians, to be specific.

By luck or prayer or merest chance, it _is_ shelved in the bottom tier. Rip pounces upon it with a small noise of triumph, something treated as unremarkable by the scholars around him – most of whom have undoubtedly done something similar at one time or another. He carries it back to the desk and sits, Snart trailing behind, a book (apparently snagged from the section on British history) in his own hand, still continuing his slow perusal of the room.

"Ah. Daniel Haynes. Captain of the _Relentless_. Good man..." Rip frowns as it occurs to him that that "good man" is likely dead. "…but sometimes a little absent-minded. Let's see..."

Snart leans over, peering at the pages. "You called it a ledger. Why is it printed?"

"They're generally dictated to the ship's AI, backed up, and then printed and bound. It can be necessary to have hard copies of such things...and, well, it's a tradition of sorts, as well." Rip frowns. "Very careless, more so than usual, to leave it behind..."

He leaves the puzzle and continues to flip pages. "Indeed. About three-fourths of the way through, we go from a treatise on the Phoenician government to a report on a family tree in which a few…tweaks…have had to be made over the years, including far in the future, for this time anyway. Tsk. Yes, we'll need to take this."

Rip closes the book firmly and glances at Snart, who is leaning against the table and looking thoughtful. "If you'll create some sort of distraction near the front of the room or the clerks, Mr. Snart—ah, nothing that will get you arrested, preferably—I'll slip out the rear exit and we can meet near that fountain I pointed out earlier."

"You're going to have a few problems with that."

"What?"

The other man points with his chin toward the door near the rear of the library, which he's been watching for a while now. "Looks like they think something's up."

* * *

If it wasn't for the fact that his neck is on the line here, too, Snart would almost be amused by the way Hunter visibly restrains himself from whipping around to look, instead turning in a slow circle. He already knows what the other man will see: a attendant now stationed at the rear door, guarding that exit.

Hunter's "bloody _hell_ " is a mere exhalation. Visibly, however, the former Time Master just frowns. "Something very strange is going on."

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but I think you're right."

The two men both look back at the book in front of them.

After a long moment, Snart speaks first. "Put it back on the shelf."

Hunter starts to argue, then gives him a thoughtful look. The crook nods.

He's surprised, to tell the truth, when Hunter nods back in agreement, replaces the ledger on the shelf and returns to the table, looking at him with narrowed eyes. But all Snart does is give the other man a thin smile before he sits down with his book on history and starts to read.

Hunter stands for a moment, then shrugs, vanishing to return with another book to take his own seat.

And they read, the very image of perfectly well-mannered and non-suspicious Reading Room visitors, in silence.

After maybe an hour (Hunter just starting to give him odd little looks every few minutes or so), Snart closes his book, rises and returns it to the shelves. Hunter does the same, and the two men leave the Reading Room via the front entrance.

Hunter starts for the front doors of the museum, frowning as Snart, cane tapping on the floor, walks purposefully to the right, heading for the exhibits proper.

"Where are you going?"

Snart doesn't turn.

"I want," he drawls, "to see the Rosetta Stone. And the Elgin Marbles."

"Mr. Snart..."

He keeps walking. A moment later, glaring, Hunter falls into step beside him.

"I thought," he hisses, "the idea was to leave now and...come back...later."

"Nope."

"Then, what the bloody...," he pauses, smiles as a couple passes them, "...hell _is_ the idea?"

Snart keeps walking...but as soon as they round a corner and there's no one there, he rounds on the other man.

"It's much easier," he hisses back, eyes narrowed, "to break _out_ of someplace like this than to break in. Especially if they're on their guard."

Hunter stares at him a moment. Then: "Ah."

"Ah, indeed."

So they see the Elgin Marbles. They see the Rosetta Stone. Gradually, they work their way deeper into the museum.

Both of them know the importance and the power of acting like you belong somewhere, even when you don't-both from hard experience. And they're both, actually, quite good at it.

They're in a lower level, walking purposefully, when Snart starts casually rattling doorknobs. Without a word, Hunter moves to the other side of the hall and starts doing the same.

Eventually a door on Snart's side opens. He's inside, followed by Hunter, in a blink. He keeps the door cracked, letting in a hair of the electric light from the hallway, while Hunter cautiously lights an oil lamp on a table, then closes and locks the door. Silence.

"The museum and Reading Room are both open until 7 p.m., correct?"

"A bit over an hour," Hunter acknowledges. "Then a little more time to sunset."

"Guess it's a good thing Gideon gave me a pocket watch." Snart tosses the cane into the air, catches it, then slowly lets himself sink down onto the floorboards, inspecting the storeroom as he does. "Boxes and record books, looks like. Nothing anyone will be looking for, we can hope. Good thing they moved the natural history stuff last year or we might be in here with all manner of _things in jars_..."

Hunter ignores the drawled final three words, although he is a touch impressed at the continued evidence of research. "Too bad the electricity hasn't been extended to every room yet, so you could _see_ that pocket watch," he says wryly. "I need to turn this down so it's not obvious we're in here. Ready?"

"Ready as I'll get."

He watches as Hunter slows turns down the oil lamp, leaving them in near-darkness, then listens as the Time Master settles himself on the floor as well.

"So now," he says with a sigh," we wait."


	3. Chapter 3

Part three of four! Sorry for the delay; the next (and last) will be posted very soon.

With thanks again at LarielRomeniel for the beta!

...

For a while, they sit in silence.

Rip closes his eyes and leans his head back onto the wall. It's funny. Even after so many years, it's still amazing how simply being in this time period can bring the memories back. The smells. (Some good, many bad.) The sounds, the voices. Even some of the tastes. (He can still taste the first spice-cake he'll buy with his ill-gotten gains in the morning.) It's nostalgic and it's painful, and he both wants to leave immediately and wants to linger a bit.

Of course, the knowledge of what his...situation...was right now remains hanging over him like a cloud, a constant aggravating worry. His younger self is in pain now, in this timeline, hungry, increasingly desperate...

"Sooooo, where is little Michael Hunter right now?"

Goddamn Snart and his perception. Annoyance makes his tone sharp...sharper than usual.

"That is _none_ of your business."

"No?" Rip can see the dim shape of the other man shift against the other wall. "You know an awful lot about the rest of us. We don't know so much about you. Seems only fair."

"What makes you think I know so much about you?"

The motion seems to be a shrug. "Don't you? Had to look us up to make sure it was safe to dangle the 'legends' lure in front of us. Which means, of course, that we _weren't_. Legends, of course."

Will he _never_ live that down?

"That doesn't mean I looked at your pasts, beyond basic abilities and what anyone in 2016 could find out. Why did you think I would? Because _you_ would?"

The quality of the silence tells him that he's scored a palpable hit. In all fairness, though, he admits: "I did have Gideon look each of you up, so that she was aware and could inform me of any...potential issues in certain times. That's her job, after all."

"Hmm." Then, flatly, "Like the reasons behind a certain pit stop in 1975?"

Ah. "Like that, yes."

"You knew it wouldn't work." Again, the flat tone.

"Mr. Snart, I didn't even know of your...jaunt...until well after the fact. When Mr. Jefferson told me, actually...and before you say anything, know that it was because he was actually concerned about you. Thought you might have damaged your own timeline and would 'pop' out of existence, or something."

"But Gideon knew. What I was going to try to do."

"I'm sure she suspected."

"And yet she didn't try to stop me. She knew it wasn't going to work."

"Mr. Snart, sometimes lessons have to be learned the hard way."

It isn't until much later that he'll put the pieces together behind the reasons for the other man's abrupt movement, something that actually looks like the start of a lunge although Snart arrests the motion nearly immediately.

He doesn't bother, however, to halt his words. "High and mighty Time Masters," comes the drawl, low and vicious. "Can't be bothered to care about improving the life of one 'nothing' family."

It stings. Partly because those Time Masters are gone. Partly because those Time Masters _did_ save him.

Eventually.

He doesn't respond, not at first. Snart doesn't seem inclined to pursue his bitter words. They sit in silence, again, until...

"I'm on my way toward starving to death right now."

He can see Snart turn his head in the direction of the words, but the other man says nothing.

"I'd been on my own for a good five years at this point," Rip continues, staring at the ceiling. "Ran away from the Foundling Hospital not too far from here, actually. I was about 5 then, and a right cocky little bastard. Thought the freedom of the streets was better than learning ropework and gardening, and gruel and bread and boiled meat for meals."

Was that the ghost of a chuckle? He frowns. But when there's nothing else, he continues.

"Ran with a gang at first. They'll take in the lil' ones … small hands can get in and out of pockets easily, and if they get caught .. well, it's more effective when they snivel. By the time I was 8, though, I was mostly on my own, and not doing badly, really.

"Then about, oh, two weeks ago, I was a little too confident."

He subsides. The silence stretches.

* * *

Why on earth is the Time Master telling him this?

OK, Leonard Snart thinks, so he'd actually asked. That doesn't mean he believed for a moment the man would actually _tell_ him anything about his past.

But now, he'll admit it: he's curious.

"So, what happened?"

He suppresses annoyance when the other man smiles a little, the expression apparent in his voice when he speaks again.

"Well, thought they had to take the piss outta me, didn't they?" The accent, gone briefly as they were beyond the hearing of others, is back and the tiniest bit thicker. "I was showin' them up. Takin' … taking their marks. There were six of them; I'm actually a little surprised I got away alive.

"But they hurt me, they did. Broke my arm. I probably had a concussion, looking back at it. Definitely in full-mourning … errr, two black eyes, that means. Pathetic, really."

He doesn't want to feel sympathy for Rip Hunter. Sympathy for anyone, really, hadn't been in his wheelhouse for a very long time.

But he does.

Because he's been there. He's had a broken arm and two black eyes at once – although he was 12 at the time, and they'd been dealt by one man alone. He's felt the burn of hunger in his belly, too, although it's never gotten close to true starvation for him.

"Hard to stay … unobtrusive … when you've had the shit kicked out of you," he drawls before he even realizes he's going to offer commiseration. "People … watch you differently."

He sees Hunter's nod in the darkness.

"Yes. Well. I laid low for as long as I could, but I eventually had to venture out or else. Had no luck at all for two nights in a row. Well, I was dizzy and I looked a nightmare … probably could have gotten a few pence begging, but ... too much pride, you know."

Oh, he knows.

"Third night I'm pretty sure I was dizzy from hunger as well," Hunter continues, but there's suddenly a hint of … avarice? Well, well... in his tone. "But there he was. This toff, a real gin bottle, out in the Whitechapel night like he was walking the streets of Piccadilly. Couldn't put one foot straight in front of the other, even with a cane. It was easy work to lift off him ...and when I got a look at his purse after, he'd apparently been carrying his entire life savings on him.

"I'd never been in the cream like that before. I got some real food and a bit of a better hidey hole until I could walk straight again myself, even got an old saw-bones to look at the arm … although they later had to re-break it at the Refuge anyway. Still, that fellow probably saved my life."

Snart thinks about the odd expression he's seen on the other man's face a few times today. "And that was around now?"

"Oh, it was tonight." He can hear the wry note in Hunter's voice. "They make us piece together our own timeline at the Refuge, as soon as we can, so we know what and when to avoid when we're actually Time Masters ourselves. I really shouldn't be here. But, well..."

The reminder of the Time Masters … and all their actions … makes Snart's voice sharp again. "So how long did it take before they actually deigned to 'rescue' you?"

He can hear the frown in Hunter's voice. "A few weeks. Tried to lift off another toff … and next thing you know, I'm waking up on a ship not unlike Gideon, on the way to the Refuge. You know something of the rest."

"Why you?"

"I haven't the foggiest notion, Mr. Snart. I was like any other urchin on the London streets. I had a somewhat odd token from before the Foundling Hospital, but … well, it's not important."

The tone is dismissive, and abruptly, it rekindles the rage he'd felt earlier.

"So the playing-god thing, it's just random then," he drawls coldly. "Anyone else can just starve. Or get beaten to death."

He sees Hunter's shadow stiffen, hears the lecturing Time-Master note come back into his tone. "Mr. Snart, the timeline..."

"The timeline? I thought they were just doing whatever they wanted. Pulling strings."

Hunter's tone is defensive. "They thought they were doing the right thing..."

But the crook is on a roll, bitterness seeping from every word. "You want people to be heroes? The Time Masters could have been heroes. Instead they tinkered just because they could. And I couldn't even make one lousy change to improve my baby sister's life.

"I've been called a villain in my day, _Rip_. But they, they were villains. Not some sort of saviors."

He's expecting a reaction; he's been pushing for it out of sheer obstinacy and anger and frustration. He's not expecting quite what he gets.

In a heartbeat, Hunter is on his feet, looming over him, and the words are spilling out of the Brit, colored with anger and pain and, that's a large share of rage.

"They _were_ my saviors and they _were_ my family and now they are **gone** ," the former Time Master hisses at him. "Because of _**you**_."

Hunter takes a shaky sort of breath.

"Gone. All of them. And it's entirely possible that my Miranda, my Jonas, weren't even saved, despite all that. And yet here _**you**_ are, back again, with a second chance, and that is something none of them got! So don't you talk to me about who deserves what, Mr. Snart. Because you sure as hell didn't deserve it. Not if they didn't."

* * *

Rip regrets the words almost immediately.

Not because they're not true. They are, and they're been percolating around in his head since the day the Oculus wellspring exploded. He knows they're unfair, which is why he's never articulated them, tried to even keep the shadow of them from coloring his actions.

But now...there they are.

From what he can see of Snart's face, it is … carefully blank. Which is not at all the sort of response he'd expected.

"I believe," the other man says finally, "that the whole thing was _your_ idea."

"It was."

"And Palmer was going to blow it up first."

"He was."

"Until Mick took it over. And then me."

"All true."

Snart waits. Rip sighs, then sinks back down to the floor.

"I did not," he says, "say that it was fair. And I apologize."

He sees the criminal shrug, a little.

"Why?" comes the drawl. "It's true enough. I blew up the Oculus. I...got sent back, although I still have no idea why.

"But you do realize," he continues, still in that oddly careful tone, "that when I stuck my hand into that thing, I thought it was likely to mean you could save your family."

Rip stares through the darkened room at him.

"Actually," he says finally, "no, I didn't. I did not realize that was...an aspect of your decision."

He sees a motion that might be another shrug.

"Well," Snart says, "it might have worked, right? You said it's still possible...now. Seems like you loved your kid. World needs more of that."

Sincerity from Leonard Snart. The world has surely come to an end.

They sit in silence for some time. It's close to time to leave their hiding spot, Rip thinks, but he's still a trifle preoccupied by the accusations and confessions they've both been throwing around.

"Why do you dislike me so much, Mr. Snart?" he says suddenly. "I know that we are, shall we say, intrinsically different people. But sometimes it seems above and beyond."

"I don't think we have that much time," comes the drawl, back to its normal insouciance.

Hunter snorts, the sound not without amusement. "Try me."

Silence.

"Sara," the other man says finally, simply.

Not what Rip was expecting. "Beg pardon?"

He can hear anger seeping back into the words. "Russia in 1986. You told her to kill Stein. Do you...you had to have known what that would do to her. And I'll be the first one to say that sometimes you have to use the tools you have at your disposal, but that would have _broken_ her, Rip." His voice is tense, clipped in a way that's a startling contract to the usual drawl. "It would have destroyed her. You knew she was trying to leave that behind her, but you tried to push her back into it anyway.

"It was the first time I could see just how much you considered her...us pawns. And forgive me," the words are rife with sarcasm, "if I have a hard time forgiving or forgetting that."

Rip just stares.

"It _was_ you," he says finally. "She said she 'had a little help,' but I didn't think...but why?"

His eyes have adjusted to the dark enough that he can see the other man's shrug.

But that's OK, because he's still turning over Snart's prior words, and the emotion layered over them. And the pieces, now, are so clear and unmistakable that he can't believe...

"You _do_ love her," he blurts out. "You might have even have started to back then, if you knew her that well."

Snart looks toward him. Looks away. His lack of a...Snart-like comeback, Rip thinks, illustrates the truth of the words far better than a verbal confirmation ever could.

For his own part, he's facing down his own rather poor assumption: that the newfound relationship between his two team members was simply a more...physical...thing rather than one of more complicated emotions.

That is, apparently, patently untrue, and seemingly always has been.

And it seems he owes another explanation.

"It was a mistake," he says. "And ultimately, I was thrilled to see that she didn't listen to me. I got a little too...wrapped up in the Time Master thing to see the people within the timeline. Is that what you want me to say? That was _their_ downfall, in so many ways. We...we will have to do better.

"But don't you pretend, Mr. Snart, that you didn't have your own changes over the past six months. Because the Leonard Snart I met in Central City wouldn't have given a rat's ass about the soul of one lost assassin...or about whether my son might possibly be saved."

He stares at Snart. Snart just stares back.

But he doesn't deny it, either.

Finally, Rip climbs to his feel, straightening his coat, checking his hat, disarming the moment.

"Time to go, I think," he whispers to the other man. "One thing an adulthood spent as a Time Master _does_ lend is a decent sense of time passed. The museum should be safely closed by now."

Snart rises with alacrity, pushing himself to his feet with the cane. "Oh, goodie," he says, drily. "No more feelings."

But for all that, the two men share a smile as Rip unlocks the door and they both step out into the hallway with its dim electric lights.

Showtime.

* * *

The hallways are dim and silent. But nearly immediately, something makes the hairs on the back of Snart's neck rise.

It's not quite _Alexa_ material. But it's nothing to ignore, either.

"There's something off," he hisses to Hunter, stopping at the base of the first flight of stairs. "Something...I don't know. But something."

The Time Master sighs, but stops as well.

"Well, the quicker we do this and get _out_ , the better," he hisses back.

It's true. But if he can't trust his instincts, what can he trust?

"Just be on guard," he says, asperity in his tone. "There's something going on."

Hunter frowns, presumably at the order, but nods once and starts to climb. Snarts stands for another few seconds, frowning to himself, then shakes his head and follows.

He'll give Hunter this: the other man can move quietly enough. They slink through the galleries, moving through the shadows thrown by Roman mausoleum fragments and ancient Egyptian sculpture and other priceless artifacts, until they're finally closing in on their goal.

And that's when Hunter finally stops in his tracks. For echoing from up ahead are the unmistaken, if indistinct, sound of voices.

"Guards, I presume," he mutters after a moment. "They'll move on."

"Mmmm," is Snart's only comment. " _Told you so_ " would not be productive.

Moving slowly through a display of Assyrian sculpture, they approach the series of long galleries that run along the museum's front.

"...said we could take whatever we could carry, as long as we get the other job done."

"It's too bad they moved all the gemstones to the new one..."

A noise of agreement. "Can you just see us running down Bloomsbury with one of these heads here tucked under our arms?"

They're here to steal from the British Museum.

But apparently others have the same idea tonight.


	4. Chapter 4

Last chapter! With thanks, yet again, to LarielRomeniel for the beta.

I hope you enjoy it!

...

Rip listens in appalled silence as the three men argue among themselves. This wasn't...this isn't...

"Oh, peachy," Snart mutters, as if to himself. "Amateurs."

"Gideon said the records showed nothing unusual in this location tonight," the Time Master says. "And she said _all_ the records were accessible again. The police, the papers...why would this not be mentioned, whether they were caught or were successful?"

Snart shrugs. "It was hushed up? Or they decided to leave without taking anything?" His noise of disapproval shows what he thinks of that. "Circle around, try to get in the back?"

"That seems our best bet," Rip agrees reluctantly. "Makes it a little harder to get out, but...it'll do."

The other man nods, then starts slinking back the way they'd come. Rip allows himself a moment of gratitude that Snart bothered to study the museum layout himself, then moves to follow.

"Here now, what's this?"

A hand snatches at his coat, and he whirls, striking out, only to find a beefy hand clamped each of his arms as he's lifted right into the air by a large fellow who looks remarkably like an annoyed walrus, complete with immense mustache. He kicks...and connects...but the man just grunts, and gives him a shake for good measure.

He left his guns back at the ship for timeline-protection purposes, and while he's not _too_ shabby at hand-to-hand, he's out-numbered and out-weighed here.

He's caught.

And Snart...is gone.

* * *

Dragged back to the Roman Gallery, his hands tied, Rip endures the scrutiny of the three men, whom he's already internally dubbed Red Ascot, Bowler Hat, and the Walrus. They're not truly rough-looking men… more the state called "shabby genteel" in some circles...but there's a coldness in their eyes that makes him feel uneasy.

It reminds him a bit of Snart when the other man is wearing his now-rarely used "Captain Cold" persona, truth be told.

"Well, this's the bearded ginger," Red Ascot says finally. "Where's the other one?"

"Herself said they'd be here, said both of 'em would be, and it had to be both of 'em," Bowler Hat mutters. The Walrus just grumbles unintelligibly. "Tall man, mostly tidy-shaven, she said. Salt n' pepper. Dangerous."

Despite the precariousness of his position, Rip can't help but feel a trifle annoyed at that his own description had not, apparently, included the word "dangerous."

"Oi!" he says sharply, laying the accent on thick, hoping the incongruity of that with his gentleman's appearance will confuse them. "Woss this? I'm by meself 'ere!"

They ignore him.

"Eh, if there's someone else 'ere, he can't have gone far," Red Ascot says finally. "Keep lookin'. And have an eye out for that what's nice and portable."

Bowler Hat mutters and the Walrus grumbles, but they both leave. The man in the red ascot tilts his head back to regard Rip, cold green eyes studying him intently.

"Should just cosh you, guv'nor, and leave you in the Round Room like she said," he says absently. "But I'm thinking might be better if we just dump you in the Thames. Fewer questions."

Well, this could get worse, fast.

And just who is "she?"

"Look, mate, four can carry more than three, right then?" Rip says, trying hard to keep his tone earnest. "What you have goin', let me in. Whoever this bird is, she don't need ter know, right, am I right?"

But the other man's eyes narrow.

"Oh, that'd have herself on us, wouldn't it?" he says. "That's the kinda talk that gets men killed. No, I think it's best you have a bit of a kip now. Maybe you wake up in a bit...maybe you don't."

As the man talks, he's been idly passing a truncheon of sorts from hand to hand, perhaps as an attempt at intimidation. Now he raises it, stepping forward

Rip's been working steadily at the knots in the length of rope they've tied him with, hands and feet both, but he doesn't quite have them loose, not yet. "Look, mate, what's she payin' you? I kin do better, I just hafta..."

"Sorry, guv'nor. Don't know what you did to get on herself's bad side. But my, that's a bird you don' want ter cross." The man grabs him by the collar, raises the truncheon into the air.

Rip closes his eyes. He doesn't really want to see the blow, last vision or not.

THWACK.

He opens his eyes just in time to see Red Ascot drop like a stone, as a rather smug-looking Leonard Snart brandishes the cane behind him.

"Idiot," the crook tells the unconscious man. "You knew I was still loose, but you got caught up in monologing. Rookie mistake."

He reaches down and slices the ropes...where did he get a knife? It's possible Sara is a bad influence...then offers Rip a hand up.

And after a moment, Rip takes it.

"I thought maybe you left," he says wryly as Snart hauls him to his feet.

"I don't usually leave people behind," the other man tells him sharply. "I thought Gideon wanted me to stay out of 'combat situations,' given the whole 'passing out' thing? So I...strategically withdrew." He snorts. "The one with the ridiculous hat is in one of the Greco-Roman galleries, taking a 'nap.' Which just leaves one."

"Ah. The Walrus. Mind if I take him?"

"Be my guest."

* * *

After that, it doesn't take too long to get into the Reading Room and retrieve the ledger. (Snart eyes the walls full of books with an edge of longing, but merely sighs when Rip gives him the evil eye.)

The absence of newspaper clippings or police reports about an attempted burglary at the BM in mind, they carefully haul the three stooges outside, miraculously managing not to be seen and leaving them propped against a wall. It's a nice area, Rip reasons out loud. They should be safe enough.

The condition of their purses is another story. He's pretty sure Snart's already robbed them blind, though.

The two men look at each other.

They're never going to be bosom friends. Rip Hunter has tried too hard to rise above his thieving beginnings, while Leonard Snart, despite recent heroic actions, takes pride in those abilities. And Rip has spent too long steeped in the notion of action for the greater good, while Snart...well, maybe he's not out just for himself these days, but the lion's share of his concern is meant for the people who are _his_.

No, they'll never really be friends.

But, just maybe, respect is possible.

Rip finally sighs, moves the ledger to underneath his other arm, then gives Snart a nod as he starts off down the street, on the way back to the ship.

The other man doesn't move.

"I don't think they were here to steal," His words are pitched just loud enough to be heard in the London evening.

Rip turns. " _You_ don't think they were here to steal?" he says with a hint of irony.

"That might have been a fringe benefit." He shrugs. "But you heard them. They were here for you. And I think the ledger was bait."

Rip's been trying not to think about this. Of "herself" and what that might entail. "You too," he adds reluctantly. "They said, 'the other one.' There was even a description; I don't know if you heard that."

Snart frowns, but doesn't look overly surprised. "What would change," he says slowly, "if we were taken out of the game until tomorrow morning? Because that was their original plan."

"It wasn't the ledger. Presumably they wanted us to be caught."

But the crook's voice is intense, suddenly, and his eyes are gleaming. "Hunter. What's _tonight_?"

Impossible not to take the meaning. "But what in bloody hell would that have to do with...if she knows my history, knows who I am, and wants to erase Rip Hunter, Time Master, from the timeline, why not just kill me?"

"I don't think she wants to erase you..." Snart's voice is low, musing, and Rip can see the wheels turning, the pieces falling together, in his mind. It suddenly occurs to him this man would have been a hell of a Time Master in his own right.

That's a fact he'll never share with Snart, who would almost certainly take it the wrong way.

When the crook speaks again, it's with a jump in logic that is both utterly ludicrous and makes far too much sense.

"It's me."

"What?"

"With a cane you said. A 'toff.' Tall," Snart reminds him, tapping his own cane against the ground. "Carrying an amount that would lead young Michael Hunter to think it was someone's 'life savings.' "

"Carter."

"What?"

"It's Michael Carter, to be honest. Usually, our entire name is changed, not just our surname." But his tone is distracted, his head spinning...

"Gideon," he whispers, "is this possible?"

The AI's voice is low, though there's no one else to hear.

"It is...possible, Captain Hunter. It is, in fact, plausible. There was a temporal...blip, for lack of a better word...noted not long before the _Monitor_ landed here and Captain McPartland found you.

"It is not," she hastens to add, "why he took you. I am not privy to that information."

* * *

Hunter looks shell-shocked. And Snart, for once, can't blame him. He gives the other man a few minutes to work through the apparent upending of his personal origin story.

Finally, the Time Master shakes his head and looks at his companion, a certain wry smile twisting his mouth. "I didn't bring that sort of money, Mr. Snart."

Snart feels a return smirk on his own face. This could be fun.

"Thought you said you were a 'cut-purse,' " he drawls. "Can you still do it?"

The snort that emits from Hunter eludes more to a childhood as that cut-purse and less to later years and then adulthood as a Time Master. "It's like riding a bicycle, Mr. Snart."

"Well then. Fancy a wager?"

Hunter hesitates.

And then, there's a spark of Michael Hunter, the urchin who stabbed the Pilgrim, in the man who cocks a finger and points at the crook he'd recruited back in 2016.

"You're on."

* * *

The newspapers of that week will note an uptick in pockets picked and purses cut around the area of Piccadilly and St. James on the evening of Sept. 1—exclusively, though unsurprisingly for that area, those of very wealthy men.

Young Michael Carter, more concerned with survival and only partially literate at that point, never sees those headlines. And the Time Masters take no note of what seems to be a perfectly ordinary crime spree.

Most of the Time Masters, anyway.

* * *

He shouldn't be here, Rip Hunter thinks.

Shouldn't be standing in the shadows, watching as Snart does a passable imitation of a soused nobleman, leaning heavily on his cane as he weaves down Wentworth Street in Whitechapel, their ill-gotten gains tucked into the purse hanging from his waistcoat.

Shouldn't see the small shadow that falls into step behind the other man, a shadow that moves slowly and deliberately in a way that isn't just criminal stealth, but born of pain and hunger.

There's no way the older crook doesn't feel the small hand tugging at the moneybag, but he gives no sign. In fact, the older version of Michael Carter thinks as he watches, Snart actually slows just a tad to let the younger version maneuver his tiny knife despite shaky hands.

He really shouldn't be here.

But apparently, he _should_ be here. Because otherwise, this wouldn't have happened. And he knows, in the depths of his soul, that he wouldn't have survived a few more weeks without this windfall.

He lets out a long, low sigh of relief as his younger self vanishes back into the night, off to take the purse back to his corner and then stare in awe at the banknotes and coins that spill out of it.

Two weeks later, he'll be safely on the _Monitor_ as it lifts off for the Refuge.

But for the first time in years, he's wondering... _why_?

* * *

Sara Lance won't say that that New York City in the 1920s wasn't fun. It was...especially when she and Mick got loose in a speakeasy and kicked some ass. And given that conventional flapper dresses aren't really made for hand-to-hand combat, she's even more appreciative of what she affectionately calls Fashion by Gideon™.

But it was otherwise unproductive. No Savage. The supposed lieutenant was a low-level goon with a lot of money, a lousy toupee and a big mouth. Definitely not very satisfying.

The Waverider is locked down as the team arrives back at the meeting point, requiring them to manually de-cloak it and bypass the security protocols. That's a little unusual, but sometimes Rip gets distracted.

As a group, they head for the bridge, which is empty...arriving just in time to hear voices coming from the corridor that leads to the jump ship.

"...I definitely won."

"Ah, you, Mr. Snart, may have made more marks, but I, I made more money from them! I would say that I definitely won this wager."

"Unfair advantage," comes the drawl. "You're a little more familiar with financial tells in that era. On a more level playing field, _I_ won."

"No such thing as an unfair advantage, guv'nor. You've played the game. You know that."

Sara just has time to blink in surprise when Rip and Leonard turn the corner and walk onto the bridge...both wearing what seem to be old-fashioned vests and suits and, amusingly enough, top hats.

But even more surprising, they actually seem to having a spirited-but for once, not hostile-argument.

"Ah. Ladies and gentlemen." Rip actually smiles. (Leonard smirks.) "I thought perhaps we'd beat you back. Any luck?"

* * *

The whole escapade may have been worth it to see the expression on the team's faces.

Sara is, predictably, the first one to lose the vaguely "hit in the head by a board" expression and saunters over to them, smiling and quite visibly checking them out. (Rip shifts uncomfortably, for all the lion's share of her attention is clearly on her lover. There are times Sara reminds him all too much of Miranda, and that's just _odd_ on so many levels.)

"Nice outfits. What's with the cane?" she asks, eyes twinkling at both of them, but the question directed at Snart with just the faintest tone of concern. At this point, he is leaning on it just a little heavily. (Despite their timely use of a hansom, the evening _had_ involved quite a lot of walking.)

He ignores the concern, which is rather par for the course. "My grandfather had one just like it. Of course, this one's weighted." A sideways smirk at Rip. "Comes in handy."

"Hmmm. I like that hat. And the tight pants aren't bad either."

Snart gives her a half-grin, then plucks the top hat from his own head and drops it onto her blond one. She grins back, a distinctly evil grin, then adjusts the hat to a jaunty tilt, leans forward and whispers something in his ear that makes his eyebrows rise abruptly.

Rip decides, with amusement, that he doesn't want to know. He watches as Sara gives the crook's ascot a yank, wrapping her fingers around the silk in a way that somehow manages to be suggestive and giving him a rather sultry smile. She gives Rip a wink, then turns on her heel, heading for the crew quarters and pulling a rather agreeable Snart behind her.

For the first time, he compares their actions to the hijinks he and Miranda used to get up to on this ship... and it doesn't hurt. Odd, what the simple word "love" can do for perception.

"Mr. Snart!"

The other man pauses, throwing a glance back over his shoulder

"You should tell her."

He doesn't bother to say what. Snart looks back at him silently, then nods, gives him a half-smile, and follows Sara off down the hall.

"Captain?" Mr. Palmer and Mr. Jefferson are looking rather bemused. Ms. Saunders is grinning at him. Mr. Rory, with a bark of laughter, has already vanished, what appeared to be a Prohibition-era bottle of alcohol in hand. Martin actually looks rather jealous. Ah, is their professor a fan of such sartorial excess? Who knew?

"Oh, carry on, people. I need to get out of this monkey suit." He plucks at the lapels of his waistcoat. "I'll explain later. Mr. Snart and I just...defused...a certain situation in Victorian London, that's all."

They're not entirely satisfied, but he's unforthcoming, and eventually they all wander off. (He wishes much luck to anyone who chooses to interrupt Mr. Snart and Ms. Lance for more information, though he doubts any of them are so foolish.)

And he's alone again.

He'd like to stall. He's like to take another look at the time stream, see if there's any new information. Hell, he'd like to pour himself a glass of scotch and rewatch series five of _Doctor Who_.

He does none of those things.

"Gideon..." He takes a deep breath. "I need you to try to figure out who among the Time Masters might not have been at the Vanishing Point when it blew up. Especially any female Time Masters.

"I think we may have a new enemy."

-END-

* * *

Author's note: So I may have had this entire idea just so I could make Hunter and Snart have a pickpocket contest. Oh, and stuff them into Victorian clothes.

There really is a Wentworth Street in Whitechapel. I couldn't resist.


End file.
